


The Other Shoe

by SisterBlueSky



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Is Trying (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Fluff and Humor, No Smut, Not Britpicked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22668898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SisterBlueSky/pseuds/SisterBlueSky
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale take some baby steps forward after the End of the Days that wasn't, and Aziraphale has some unpleasant visitors at the bookshop. Book and TV show thrown in a blender. Featuring fervent hugging. Rated teen and up just because of Crowley's book-level potty mouth, and vague hints that at some point, sometime, somewhere, soonish, Crowley and Aziraphale will maybe, possibly get that picnic, and all that that implies.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 21





	The Other Shoe

**Author's Note:**

> Aziraphale's old-fashioned notions about a certain island continent do not in any way reflect the opinions of the author. I love your country, it's fascinating and awesome. Please don't yell at me.

Quite some time past the non-End of Days, after a good twelve hours of sleep, and then a nap, the demon Crowley was sitting on a bench in Hyde Park, fooling with his phone, waiting for the angel to call to be picked up for lunch, and making the lives of certain deserving passers-by just a little bit more miserable, just for old time's sake. He had been trying to take it easy on major demonic miracles, the better to stay off the radar of whatever Powers might be watching, but after so long without a sign of Heavenly or Hellish attention, (no Archangels appearing with a celestial sword to cut off his head, no threatening voices booming through electronic devices or even, say, a certain vengeful Duke of Hell leaping out to tear him limb from limb,) he had let down his guard. So what could it hurt to cause trouble for some tourists coming from the lower-tier hotels nearby? He had already miracled up unexpected flights of pigeons to ruin that perfect holiday snapshot with a wet splat of poo, spilled coffee, and of course the old immovable-coin-on-the-pavement prank, because that was comedy gold.

He wondered what Aziraphale was doing at that moment. He pictured the angel, having driven out the last of the would-be customers empty-handed, dusting off his hands with a self-satisfied smile and sitting down with a book, something deadly dull and boring with no pictures. There would be a cup of tea at his elbow, and the sun through the dusty windows of the bookshop would be filled with motes that winked and glittered all around his fluffy head like stardust. Maybe there would be a little smudge of dirt on the end of his nose from his trips through the stacks earlier that morning, as he pointlessly shifted the grunge of ages around with a feather duster. His little pink mouth would be pursed in concentration, soft square hands with those unexpected calluses lying gently on the page, pale eyelashes-  


Crowley realized suddenly that he had been gazing into the distance for quite a long time with a a sappy, stupid grin on his face, like a teenage girl mooning across the room at the captain of the football team. He leaned his head back and gave a long, low whine of self-disgust. It had taken a long time to admit to himself that he might have (ugh,) deeper feelings towards Aziraphale, or any feelings at all, actually. A long, long time ago he had put Feelings in a box, crammed it down tight, then sat on it for good measure, mostly out of fear that so much as a brush of hands, if seen by the wrong set of eyes at the wrong moment, could end very badly. (Fear of a rain of brimstone or a holy lightning strike was a powerful de-motivator. He reckoned Aziraphale had a box of nicely repressed Feelings, too, probably gilded, with _Thou Shalt Not Touch Demons who Make Cow Eyes at You, No Matter How Attractive_ in grim calligraphy on the lid.) Crowley didn't fancy being dragged back to Hell and eternally chained to a desk, (1) or worse, watching the angel take a long, spiraling dive into a lake of fire. Now that the world was safe (for a few thousand human lifetimes, anyway,) no Antichrists to raise or wiles to thwart, no curses or blessings on their schedules, there were whole new open avenues to explore regarding his and Aziraphale's, ngk...Feelings, but this was getting ridiculous. Just because nothing was happening didn't mean Someone wasn't still looking. He had spent millennia painting himself as Hell's answer to James Bond, and all it took was a shiny, newly-saved world and a boozy lunch at the Ritz with a sweetly-smiling Angel fluttering his eyelashes, and his Feelings (ergh) had leaped out of the box and landed right on his face. He might as well miracle up some markers and posterboard and start posting CROWLEY HEARTS AZIRAPHALE, COME SMITE ME around London. 

And those pigeons over there were totally judging him.  


"Piss off," he said. Ugh, pigeons, where were they all coming from? They were even starting to cluster on the bloody balcony of his building in the mornings, cooing and shitting, staring in through the windows while he drank his coffee like, like, nosy flying rats. Stupid, too. Ducks were bastards, but they weren't morons. He _liked_ ducks. He lowered his sunglasses and gave a hiss, causing the more fainthearted fowl to coo weakly and fall over. He flicked his hand. "Oh relax. There, go shit on that knob with the backpack and sandals, that'll make you feel better."  


The majority of the flock flew away. Crowley's phone buzzed and started playing The Hallelujah Chorus. (Arrangement by Brian May, vocals by F. Mercury. That's what he got for leaving the phone sit in the Bentley's glove-box while he snoozed away what felt like fifteen years worth of Apocalypse-accumulated sleep debt.) He held it away from his ear since even with his shiny new cell-phone, Aziraphale still had the old-fashioned habit of speaking in a restrained bellow to better carry his voice down non-existent telephone lines. "Morning, angel. You all sorted? Yes, I know it's past two."  


He had no idea what time it was. Crowley glanced at the watch he still wore just because it looked cool, the one that gave the time in all the world capitals, and That Other Capital in that place where the time was always Too Late, that he dearly hoped he would never have to come anywhere near ever again. Both of their respective Head Offices had been silent (rather ominously silent, in Crowley's opinion,) since the Notapocalypse. Aziraphale reckoned that Heaven was probably still having a collective brainfart at how their least-favorite, retiring little Principality had managed to poke a stick in the spokes of The Great Plan and they wouldn't be a problem for a long while. When and if they finally made a move they were apt to be about as subtle as...something not very subtle. There'd probably be a memo or something. "To: Principality Aziraphale Re: Apocawhereisit. Will be coming for tea and your murder on Tuesday. Wear an actual tie. Sincerely, A Lot of Butthurt Feathered Wankers." Angel and demon had had a long, inebriated discussion about this. Crowley made concerned, drunken noises about safe houses and back-up plans, but Aziraphale had said he refused to live the rest of his existence with his head on a swivel. He was quite schnockered, so it took him three tries and a hiccup to say 'swivel', but in any case, in a state of constant paranoia as he waited for the other shoe to drop. "An' if Heaven doesn't like it, they can just sit on a tack."  


Crowley had meant to point out, as someone once said, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you. Whatever Heaven decided to do, he knew Hell had a tendency to lurk in a dark corner and brood silently, and plot, and when that metaphorical other shoe finally dropped it was on your most tender parts, without warning, and with a very pointy heel. He had meant to say all this, but he was already at the bottom of his second bottle of some very fine cognac by that point, too sloshed to sober up, and unable to deal with this strange new post-Nopeapocalypse world where Aziraphale was being such a fearless saucy optimist and he was...was, well, he was a pragmatic optimist. But all he could manage was "Pffft. Arseholes, but the _shoes_ ," then fell over and went to sleep. (Waking up in the morning curled up on the rug with a pillow under his head, a tartan blanket over his corporation, and the taste of something small, furry, and regretful having died in his mouth. Nearby, the angel drank tea and looked smug.)

Crowley finished the call and hit 'End. He supposed he'd better get moving or the angel would be in a snit and he'd have to pretend to listen to a long lecture about The Virtue of Punctuality, while he argued that hello, no virtues to speak of, you can take the demon out of Hell but you can't take Hell out of the demon, blah blah. Crowley rose to his feet and stretched-Sloth truly was one of the most underrated sins-scattering the remaining pigeons. Except for one, who was pecking at a crumpled paper bag. It was quite a big pigeon, and Crowley gave it a long, considered look. Hellish glamour fell away and as Crowley slowly approached, smoothly, serpent-like, it looked more and more like a very short person with a long nose, bent over sharply at the waist. It fairly reeked of Hell and was wearing a rather grubby, moth-eaten gray and white tracksuit, and muttered anxiously _pigeon pigeon be the pigeon ooh is that a chip I am only a pigeon o no I'm spotted o shit o shit abort mission abort abort...!_  


It was an Imp. (2) Crowley lunged and caught it around the back of the neck just as it raised its short arms to take flight, forgetting in the terror of the moment that it was not in actuality, a bird, and couldn't take off. It squawked as Crowley snarled at it, fangs inches away. "Spying, are we? Somebody keeping tabs on me? Hastur, maybe? Who sent you, you little shit."   


The Imp squeaked and trembled. "Mercy, my lord! I am merely a minion, a worm, the lowest of the low, bound to do the bidding of Hell -" It was quite articulate for an Imp,which are little animated bits of the collected leftover ugly emotions of the denizens of Hell, and usually have about as much sentience and vocab as your average gerbil. Crowley shook it like an old rag. "I'm not in any way, shape, or form, your _lord_ , Imp. Ah well, never mind," Crowley said, beginning to unhinge his jaw. "You've made me late for my lunch date and I've a sudden hunger for squab."

"They needed someone expendable!" the Imp screamed. "To watch you! To make sure you were away from the Angel while they-"

There was quite a lot more that the Imp meant to say, but Crowley had a sudden sickening flashback to kneeling in a burning bookshop, cursing Heaven and Hell, left all alone in a doomed world with an enormous Aziraphale-shaped hole in it.  


"They who?" Crowley gave the Imp another good shake.  


"Lord Beelzebub, Master!" And oh, fuck no. No no nonono. They. They were handling this personally? That was bad, so bad. "And some angels, I dunno, it was on a need to know basis! I know nothing! I am nothing! I am dirt! A worm! I have poor hygiene! And psoriasis! I taste terrible! Mercy! Mercy!"  


"You go back Downstairs," Crowley said through bared teeth, quite cool and deadly, the outward facade of a man-shaped being with all his carefully tamped-down paranoid fears come true, while inside he was leaping and screaming _shit shit shitfuck oh Angel they know everything we're caught we're caught._ "You tell them to if they touch one hair on the Angel's head, I will burn Heaven to the ground, I will make it _rain_ holy water in Hell. You got that?"

The Imp nodded frantically. "Good," Crowley said, and with a little demonic miracle he'd been saving for a rainy day, opened a small, sulfurous-smelling portal at his feet and dropped the Imp into it. Thank you, master came the Imp's cry, but before the last syllable had faded, Crowley had already crouched and then shot up like a rocket headed toward the bookshop, blowing passers-by off their feet, causing untraceable earth-tremors of a magnitude not felt in London since the thirteenth century, and sending seismologists at the British Geological Survey into a tizzy.

* * *

Aziraphale had long since finished his call to Crowley and driven out the last of his customers. ( He had gently but firmly shoved the most stubborn out the door, a short, plump little woman with long braids, whose trembling fingers had come perilously close to his first printing of Josephus' _Antiquities of the Jews_ that he had foolishly left out in plain sight after mending the spine.) He was bustling about the little kitchenette in the back of his shop, tunelessly singing Ode to Joy(3) and putting together a picnic basket. He fussed over the variety and arrangement of the various good things he had picked up at the shops that morning, most of which he would end up eating himself: Cheese, deviled eggs, a nice brioche, among other things, and a couple of bottles of strong Spanish wine he had picked up in the early nineteenth century that had miraculously not turned to vinegar. He had a lot to say to Crowley that he had been struggling with for a long, long time, and some sincere apologies to make. He had always been better with the written word, so a little dutch courage wouldn't hurt and in vino veritas, and all that. He hoped that Crowley could accept his words with good grace, since he was apt to take any compliment regarding his better qualities with either a rude gesture and a sarcastic dismissal, or an offended snarl and a long sulk. Now that Heaven was no longer breathing down Aziraphale's neck, maybe, just maybe he could be brave enough to say things he had feared to say for so long, things like _You are my best, most dearest friend, and You have made my life richer by your mere presence,_ and _There are ethereal beings treading on streets of gold right now unworthy to kiss the hem of your garment, my dear_. Or even _You are totally transparent when you use your demonic powers to cheat at Scrabble and I always forgive you_. Well, maybe not that last one. Some things are beyond the pale.  


Aziraphale fluttered around for a while longer, then filled a thermos with hot coffee and prepared to put it in the basket, in case Crowley felt sluggish or chilled. He was a little bit reptile, after all. The thermos was a gift from Crowley, a replacement for the one Aziraphale had given him filled with holy water all those years ago. The new thermos had been a sleek stainless steel model to begin with, but within a week it was sneakily becoming squatty and scuffed with a pattern of pale blue plaid.  


It occurred to Aziraphale that perhaps he was overthinking things, as he had a tendency to do, and the right words were the simplest in this case. He held the thermos up before his eyes and cleared his throat, and tried to picture Crowley's face. "My dear Crowley," he murmured. "My dear, I-"  


His sentence was broken off by a sudden vibration in the air, the hum of something demonic coming in low at a good clip. Aziraphale cringed and unconsciously clutched the thermos to his chest, having an unpleasant remembrance of every buzz-bomb he had been forbidden to miracle away from central London in '44 (A.D. of course,) then there was a tremendous crash upstairs, screams and car alarms blaring outside, and the poor old building shook to its foundations. Aziraphale whirled around in time to see the real Crowley stumbling down the suicidally steep back staircase, covered in crumbs of broken shingles and powdered plaster and cobwebs, having crashed in through the roof into the angel's dusty little bedroom under the eaves.(4) "What in the name of Heaven? Crowley!"  


"Oh, thank Chri...er, crackers, you're still here," Crowley said, then ran to him and clutched at him hard enough to leave bruises on his corporation. "The bloody shoe, angel,"" He croaked. "The _shoeeee._ "

"Err," Aziraphale said blankly, then felt the blood leave his face as he sensed the static-electric tingle of something powerful and Ethereal just entering the mortal plane close by, along with something equally powerful and Occult. "Oh. Oh no."  


"Oh yeah," Crowley all but whimpered, and Aziraphale could feel the tremble in his grip, like wind humming through a tight, high wire. "We need to go. The jig is up, Angel. I don't how they caught on, but they know about the body-switch, the Arrangement, everything, they'll be here soon and we need to go right the fuu...er..now."

Aziraphale felt a frightened wheeze coming on and wished desperately for a handy paper bag. He wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to do with it, but he had cataloged a surprising amount of late twentieth-century self-help books when he put the shop in order after the The End that Wasn't, most of them written in the same era as the hardbound collections of some publication called The New Aquarian, and they seemed to agree that it was a helpful thing in times of stress. (Well, that and staring into one's navel and chanting Om, or picturing picnics in sunny fields of daisies, or alternately, having large amounts of sex in sunny fields of daisies with several different partners. The books were poorly-written codswallop, with advice totally irrelevant to an angel's personal wellness and mental well-being, and he had read all of them. )  


This couldn't really be happening. It had been so long without any sign of, of, anything, and they been so very clever and had fooled both Heaven and Hell. Apocalypse averted, no one looking over their shoulders. They were free. They were going to say, and do, and be, whatever they wanted. They had _plans_. "But the shop, my books, your plants, your _car_ -"  


Crowley groaned. "Angel. Please. No dithering this time. Just. Please."

He was so afraid, and he had come back to save him, if he could, one more time, when he could have dropped his corporation and been halfway across the universe already. My poor boy, Aziraphale thought. If all the combined powers of Above and Below had truly found them out and were on the way, filled with holy wrath and the vengeance of Hell, there was no place left to run away to where they could not reach. Even Alpha Centauri wouldn't be far enough. "Alright," he said. "Alright, I, I just need to get my spectacles..."

Crowley bared his teeth, then made a noise like a small, frustrated engine blowing a gasket and whirled around and around. "Nnnnrrrrr, seriously? Don't know why you wear the blasted things, you don't even need them. Where are they?"  


"Oh, never mind, they're right here in my pocket, silly me. Oh, and Crowley? Please forgive me."

"For what?" Crowley said, and turned just as Aziraphale put two finely manicured fingers against his forehead.

"Because I am about to play you a dirty trick," Aziraphale said. "Sleep, my dear."  


This was a direct violation of one of the principle terms of their Arrangement: No using their respective powers on each other, unless with express permission and in direst need.(5) Crowley instantly turned into slack, dead weight and fell onto the Angel like a very long, skinny sack of potatoes. Aziraphale staggered back with a grunt and a low Woof of surprise. How could someone with so little meat on his bones be so heavy? He summoned up a little angelic strength until Crowley felt much lighter, then stumbled forward toward an armchair and deposited Crowley into it. The demon's face was peaceful, his chin on his breast, glasses askew, and drooling a bit. Aziraphale felt a terrible pang when he thought he might just be looking at him for the last time, but hardened his heart. It had to be done. Either Hell was coming for Crowley-and Aziraphale would not let them take him-or Heaven was coming for him, and he couldn't let Crowley be destroyed trying to stop them. It was more likely they were both in a pickle and he knew Crowley would rather they went down together, but well, bugger all that. What he was about to do wasn't what Crowley would want, but Aziraphale didn't care. He had always been a little selfish, and yes, admittedly, a bit of a bastard, occasionally, more often than not to Crowley who deserved better. It was just another one of his many failings as an angel, he supposed. Crowley was going to be far, far away and very, very unhappy with him when he woke up.   


There was no more time. "You will have a lovely dream of whatever you like best," Aziraphale told him gently, and indeed, Crowley's mouth gave a happy quirk.(6) He leaned down suddenly and kissed his damp forehead under the fringe, then his cheek, then each hand. Such physical gestures of affection weren't something they usually did, but if it was good enough for Nelson and Hardy, it was certainly good enough for an angel and a demon about to part forever. Then he folded Crowley's hands over each other, sighed, and miracled him away to the most distant, desolate place on Earth he could think of, someplace even an angry, grieving Demon flying at top speed might take a fair bit of time getting back from. For better or worse, it should be all over by the time he returned. "Goodbye."

The chair was empty. Aziraphale stood up as tall as he could and hoped the tremble in his knees wasn't too obvious. He could do this. He had walked into Hell for Crowley, after all, with only the thinnest hope of walking back out. This wasn't that much more terrifying, though with much less chance of surviving the experience. To paraphrase a line from those rather mad American Evangelicals, What Would Crowley Do here?

"Bluff," Aziraphale said with great resolve, and straightened his waistcoat. He clutched the thermos a little tighter for the warmth and comfort of it and turned to meet his visitors.

* * *

  


Time, to immortal beings, is not a river. Rather, it is like watching a long series of mildly interesting parade floats they had decorated while they waited for The Big One, which is also The Last One. Each passing float is filled with rulers and popes and saints, conquerors and despots, (and some wanna-be despots with terrible haircuts and questionable morals,) and millions upon millions of ordinary mortals milling about wondering that they are allowed to be in the parade at all. The great majority of these humans are either shouting and waving frantically to get the attention of the watchers on the sidelines, or whistling with their hands in someone else's pocket and pretending that no one is watching them at all. High and low, great and small, all of them fade into dim memory as soon as their particular float turns the corner and disappears. Such is mortal time. But time to both Ethereal and Occult beings, like dinner reservations and tax audits, is something that happens to other people.

So it had been a day, or a week, or a few decades of mortal time past The World's Non-Ending. In Hell, it was Monday. It was always Monday.

Lord Beelzebub sprawled on Their throne of bones and fear and brooded. Some foolish minor demons scuttled over attempting to offer some small refreshment ( a tarnished goblet filled with the bitter tears of retail clerks working full shifts on Christmas Day,) or an Imp or two to kick, but after They banished them to the darkest level of Hell to clean all the cesspits with their tongues, the smarter ones gave Them a wide berth. They were brooding, and did not wish to be disturbed, and also, thinking. There had been frustrated grumbling in the ranks of Hell since the long-awaited Apocalypse failed to happen, from demons who had really been looking forward to some world-wide fire and slaughter and pillage, and perhaps some personal payback against certain angels they tussled with during the Fall. After the Traitor Crowley had somehow survived his attempted execution by holy water, the grumbling grew louder, and all the banishing and torment Hell could devise was barely keeping it down. But how, how had he done it? That was the question, and the true worry. He was Damned and Fallen, how had he acquired such power, and how much, and what would he do with it? With such at his disposal, what was to stop him from marching into Hell someday, to conquer and overthrow and lay the heads of his enemies at the feet of The Prince of Darkness as tribute?

Beelzebub rubbed at Their temples with one clawed hand. "Oh Szzatan. I need a coffee."  


There was an angry buzzing in the pocket of Their vest, and They snarled and waved a hand around Their demonic person to scatter the cicadas before realizing it was that modern invention called an Eye-Phone. A nonsensical name, really, no truth in advertising. They had had to add the eyes Themselves. Beelzebub picked it up and scowled. It glared back. "What do you want?"  


Michael's frosty voice answered. "Gabriel desires a meet-up to network a mutual problem."  


"You are hizzz perszzzonal zzzecratary?" Beelzebub sneered. "I do not come and go at Heaven'szz bidding, Archangel. Let Her Most High Bootlicker sspeak for himszzelf if he hazzz szzomthing to szzzzay."  


There was a pause and then Gabriel's flat, American Midwestern tones, filled with mock good-humor. "Beelzy! How's it hanging?"

"Eh?" When it came to modern slang, even the most up-to-date Demon slouching through Hell was still stuck on the level of 'twenty-three skidoo'. Most of The Pit didn't get out much, and the higher ranks got out even less and were still verbally nosing around in the thirteenth century. "It hangsszz...well. And do not call me 'Beelzy',"

"Great, great. Look, rumor has it that there's been a bit of...dissension Downstairs since that whole Apocalypse snafu-"

Beelzebub bristled. "There iszzz no-"

Gabriel talked right over the top of Them in a way that, had he been physically present, would have got his eyes bitten out.

"-thanks to an associate who refused to see the big picture. No such thing as company loyalty anymore, am I right? We've had some similar lapses in work ethic here on our end and it's really bringing down morale among the rank and file. I could use your input on this. How about we have a meet-up, get an idea shower going and resolve this issue?"  


There was a long pause as They mentally translated Gabriel's jargon into something more Hellish. "You wish to unite our forcesszz to fall upon them unawaresszzz and punishss the Traitorszz. They have untold power beyond your underssztanding. You wisszzh to do thiss without overssszzzight of other angelszz, yet fear you would be vanquiszhed alone."  


"Erm," Gabriel said, sounding thrown for a loop. They had hit the nail on the head there. Beelzebub smirked. "Kind of. I was thinking of a different approach this time. More like...a forced Sabbatical. With some terms and conditions to our advantage."

'Sabbatical'. They liked that word. It sounded...dark. Though the two Traitors would surely be ever watchful, ever together. It would be foolish to come upon them when they could combine their powers and incinerate Them before they even had a chance to speak. Lord Beelzebub would dispatch a watcher, someone expendable, to report their locations. (Over in a dim corner, two bored lesser Demons, wearing matching sadistic grins, shin-guards, and cleats, were waving threatening rackets at an Imp in a threadbare tracksuit. They snapped Their fingers and the two racket-wielding Demons had joined their fellows in the cesspit, and the Imp was at Their feet giving good grovel.)

Yes, when the Traitors let down their guard and parted ways, the powers of Heaven and Hell would strike..er, Sabbatical...them. Yes. With great wrath. And no severance package. Let all of Heaven Above and Hell Below look on their fate and tremble.  


"So, what do you say, Beelzy? Let's brainstorm and get these Traitors out of our hair, show our people that we can still play hardball. Then we can circle back and get our respective War Plans rolling again. You bring one of yours for backup, I bring one of mine, we'll meet on neutral ground and plan our objective, your choice of location."  


"Starbucksszz," Beelzebub said decisively. "I wisszh to try thisszz szzinful beverage 'pumpkin spicezzz.'" 

* * *

  


Gabriel was standing there, looking very crisp and casually businesslike in his fine suit jacket and turtleneck,(7) accompanied by Michael, looking very uncomfortable. _No sword, no sword,_ a mental voice twittered hopefully in Aziraphale's head, _that's good, isn't it?_ ) Beelzebub was there, too, minus Their usual facial pustules and swirling cloud of biting insects. Beelzebub's companion was a hulking, heavy-browed brute(8) with large, protruding teeth who would have been more at home under a bridge somewhere, menacing some helpless billy-goats. It was rather like a visit from some of the neighborhood criminal types who now and then dropped by to bully and threaten in their fruitless attempts to buy the shop, except with tremendous amounts of Occult and Ethereal power crackling in the air, waiting to be unleashed. Aziraphale felt it gathered there like a small storm-cloud and willed away the perspiration that wanted very badly to bead on his upper lip. What would Crowley do? Well, he'd undoubtedly be soiling himself, but that wasn't very helpful at the moment.

"Principality Aziraphale."  


"Gabriel," Aziraphale replied coolly, with the poisonously polite smile he reserved for his most obnoxious customers. He acknowledged Beelzebub's presence with a slight nod. "Fiend of Hell."

The fact that he was ignoring Michael altogether in favor of greeting a Prince of Hell was a snubbing that did not go unnoticed. She looked painfully peeved, and Aziraphale was glad of it. He hadn't forgotten her arrival at 'Crowley's' mockery of a trial with the pitcher of holy water that would have destroyed him.  


Beelzebub spoke up. The flies were missing but the malarial whine of small, feverishly beating wings was still in Their voice. "Where izz the Traitor Crowley?" Though They were ninety-nine percent certain he was gone, there was that iffy 'one percent', and a trace of demonic fear-sweat and expensive cologne lingered in the air of the bookshop. "Doeszz he not cling to your skirtssz, Prinzcipality?"  


"Oh, I have no idea where he is, I'm afraid. Personal business, won't be in for quite some time, but if you wish to leave a message I will be happy to deliver it if he should happen to come by." Aziraphale sat the thermos on the desk between them with a confident thud. "Anything in particular for you today, Gabriel? Just browsing? More 'pornography', perhaps? I hear Mrs. Beeton's recipe for Victoria Sponge can be quite scandalous."  


Perhaps someone must have clued Gabriel in at some point to Mrs. Beeton's actual area of expertise, because his face had developed an ugly flush. Beelzebub made a sound that might have been a chuckle, and Their brutish cohort had squinched up his face and was showing every one of his, er, tusks, and making a noise that Aziraphale supposed might be demonic laughter but sounded quite a bit like a broken washing machine chugging toward 'Spin'. Even Michael looked slightly less constipated. He doubted they knew Mrs. Beeton from Adam's off-ox, but they recognized the mortification of a jack-ass with a pole up his hind-parts getting some richly-deserved mockery from someone he considered his inferior, and were enjoying it to the fullest.  


"Let's cut the crap." Gabriel leaned forward with his knuckles on the desk and attempted to Loom, something which had stifled questions and cowed wayward angels for millennia. "Lying on your reports, consorting with the Adversary, corrupting your Ethereal Being with gross human intoxicants and, and _sushi_ , interfering with Her plan, not to mention resisting your Ordained Destruction-which, by the way, we totally know how you did that, so don't get cocky."

Aziraphale raised a disinterested eyebrow. "Mmm." He was becoming more and more certain that not a single soul in Heaven or Hell had an idea above an oyster how he (and Crowley,) 'did that', or he and Gabriel wouldn't be having this conversation. He saw Gabriel's hand inch toward the thermos, perhaps to move it aside. "Careful, that's hot."  


Michael's eyes widened and she whispered a word in Gabriel's ear. Aziraphale saw her lips move: _Hellfire_. Gabriel looked briefly alarmed before he put back on the bland, disapproving mask, but he quickly snatched his hand away. He cleared his throat. "You know what they say, once is a coincidence, twice is a pattern, three times is...the rest of the pattern. Given this long-standing pattern of behavior, it's pretty clear your head is just not in the game. There's only one way left this can end, buddy."

Here would come the sword. Oh God Oh God Oh God have mercy.

Gabriel lifted a hand and Michael slapped an ecru folder with gilt edging into it. (Aziraphale admirably restrained both his corporation's startled _Eep!_ and his angelic being's simultaneous attempt to flee through the ceiling.) "You need some time to reflect on your poor career decisions. We're thinking a long leave of absence might be beneficial here. Unpaid, of course." He pushed the folder across the desk with two fingers and gave a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You're officially on Sabbatical and confined to Earth until the final results of a soon-to-be-scheduled comprehensive over-all performance evaluation. You'll find all the particulars and terms and conditions in here."

Both Gabriel and Michael looked rather smug, as if they had dealt him a crushing blow, but Aziraphale's heart had leaped up to do a happy Gavotte in his chest. He was alive. He had not Fallen, or been erased from existence, or even discorporated and carried away to some eternally boring desk job Upstairs. He still had food and wine and books and music, and a dear, pointy-faced ex-Adversary to share those joys with him. That is, if said dear ex-Adversary ever stooped to speak to him again after his unexpected removal out of harm's way.

Aziraphale leafed through the folder, finding an astounding amount of nearly incomprehensible legal-speak, and noting the places where he was meant to sign on the dotted line and sanction his own punishment, whatever and whenever Heaven decided it might be. Michael was already holding out the pen. Aziraphale took it from her hand and fiddled with it, twirling it in his fingers and tapping it on the desk as he pretended to consider- _tappity tappity tappity_ -mostly for the small pleasure of making Michael's eye twitch. "I see. Well, I simply can't get to this today, I have a previous engagement and I was about to close up the shop, but I will have my legal adviser (9) look it all over and we will have it back to you in a jiffy." He dropped the folder (and Michael's nice gold pen,) into a drawer. "Please leave now. Good day."  


He was practically daring them to attempt a sound smiting, but the two Archangels merely shuffled awkwardly. Gabriel was looking flushed and indignant, but Michael moved a little closer to him and he snapped his mouth shut, as if someone had suddenly pressed a sensible wedge heel firmly across his toes. Aziraphale rejoiced. The Crowley in his head cackled demonically. _Fear me, you twits_. They had already failed to physically destroy him. He had stood in Hellfire before their eyes (in Crowley's corporation, but they didn't know that,) and shrugged. Now they had failed to destroy his spirit and this was their final play. Once Aziraphale would have been crouched at their feet weeping and begging for entrance to Heaven, but he didn't give two pins for Heaven now when everything he valued most was on Earth. He wasn't one bit afraid of them anymore (at least on the outside.) They didn't dare lay a finger on him, body or soul, for fear of what unknown amount of power he might have up his sleeve, and what he might do with it. "And you, Fiend? Anything for you today?"  


"Crowley'szz gutss on a szztick," They said. Aziraphale's small, pursed smile became strained. "But We will accept the humiliation and debaszement of the two Archangelsszz. It wasszz moszt gratifying. For the other, We will bide our time." They slapped a an official-looking, slightly charred envelope on the desk. It was still smoking, and it was stamped NOTICE OF REDUNDANCY: PENDING in (actual) blood red letters. "Tell the Traitor if he dareszz poke his facezz into Hell We will cut it off."  


They were gone suddenly in a whiff of ozone and sulfur and the sound of wings. Aziraphale walked backward until his bottom met his desk chair, then his legs gave out, too shaken to even get up and fetch a restoring cup of tea. The next few minutes were a hysterical blur of giggles and snot, as he laughed until he cried and cried until he laughed, shortly followed by the roar of a miraculously well-kept antique engine and the cries of unfortunate Soho pedestrians being scattered like geese. Aziraphale dropped his head into his hands. Oh Lord.

The door burst open so violently that splinters flew and it hung off his its hinges, the bell, which had served the old shop so faithfully for so long, giving a last, despairing tinkle as it flew off into a dusty corner. Crowley looked more feral than the Angel had seen him for a thousand years, crouched low and snarling yet somehow filling the shop to the ceiling, all fangs and talons and nightmare wings, every hair and scale on end, yellow eyes as big as soup bowls burning molten gold. Any mortal catching sight of him would have fainted (10), but Aziraphale had seen this before and recognized it as the fear display of a very small snake facing down a very big gardener armed with a rake.

"Come on, you feathery fuckwitssss! You flyblown putrid arssssewipe!" Crowley howled and hissed, looking around for Aziraphale's attackers. "I'll tear your gutss out, you! You..." The fire went out of his eyes. The shop was very quiet. "Eh?"  


"They've gone," Aziraphale said, still damp around the eyes and red in the face. "They won't be back."

Crowley put the wings and scales and talons away and stumbled forward until he was within touching distance, then reached out a trembling hand toward the angel's knee. "Are you...they didn't..."  


Aziraphale gave the outstretched hand a little pat. "I'm quite alright, they didn't lay a finger on me." He waved toward the desk. "I'm not quite sure about my own job, but I believe you've been sacked."

Crowley gave the gilded folder and the charred, reeking envelope hardly a glance. Now that he knew the Angel wasn't a pile of ashes, or dying in a multitude of horrible ways, or violently discorporated and taken away forever, he could go back to being really pissed off at him. He stood up straight and pointed one long finger. "You, you, you complete and utter _bastard_."

"Oh please don't shout. I have such a headache-"  


"Just sending me away like that! And what the actual fuuu...feathers is this all about, then? What the blazes did you mean by this?" Crowley extended his left hand, where Aziraphale had placed what he thought would be his final words regarding their long association with a kiss, and shook it under the angel's nose. "Did you...mean it?"(12)  


"Oh my dear," Aziraphale said. "I did. I do. Always. Every word."

Crowley yanked him up out of the chair by his lapels, but only to squeeze the stuffing out of him, another one of those somethings they didn't usually do. Aziraphale was surprised to find himself squeezing back just as hard, and oh my, this really was a wonderful new world for them, wasn't it? "I'm sorry, I'm terribly sorry, I had to."

"Our side, _our_ side, Angel," Crowley said, not giving a single shit as the last of his demonic pride and dignity blew away like cotton fluff. He and the Angel were clinging and sniveling like two old grannies at a funeral. "Don't you ever do that to me again."  


"Never. Never. Please don't be angry."  


"I am _so_ angry." Crowley's wobbly voice was muffled in Aziraphale's collar. "Furious."

"I know, I know," Aziraphale said, deeply penitent. "Australia."  


"What the Heaven were you thinking?"  


"They were coming to kill us, I panicked."  


"You," Crowley said. "Are buying lunch, from now on. Forever."  


"Yes, my dear, of course."  


"Crossing your fingers behind my back doesn't ward off the fib, angel."  


"Bugger."

"We deserve a drink," Crowley sniffled, rubbing his damp nose on his angel's shoulder. "All the drinks."  


"And a holiday," Aziraphale said, patting his back. "A little one, in the country, just a few hundred years or so. Someplace by the sea. Together." Neither one of them were foolish enough to think that Heaven and Hell would leave them in peace forever. Someday, the wheels of Her Great Plan would grind into motion again, and what part they would play in it, or if they would play any part in it at all, was...ineffable. But for now they still had each other, and a little more time. He tightened his grip until Crowley creaked, and added fiercely, "And bother the daisies and the navels, but we will have picnics! Lots and lots of picnics!"  


"Yeaaah?" Crowley said on a labored inhale, feeling wonderfully crushed in the angel's embrace and contextually left in the dust. (Daisies? Navel...oranges? What?) There had been some talk of a picnic umpty-numpty years ago, sitting with Aziraphale in the Bentley in the seedy neon glow of Soho, but he had been a lot more focused back then on swallowing down a huge lump of personal rejection and trying not to drop a thermos of Holy Water in his lap. There was something in Aziraphale's tone now that said 'picnic' in the current context might mean sitting in the grass together and pouring some wine, or it might mean rolling around in the grass together and pouring the wine on each other. The darkened husk of a heart that Crowley would have sworn he didn't have made a weird, excited flip-flop in his chest. "Yeah. That sounds good. Let's do that."  


There was a long silence, broken only by the sounds of the city, the quiet rustle of disturbed books settling, a squeak like a elderly mouse with laryngitis, then a strong, rising odor, reminiscent of a musty warehouse of stale vanilla digestive biscuits on fire. "Oh. Oh dear."  


"Why, Angel," Crowley coughed gently. "I didn't know you had it in you."  


"It just slipped out," Aziraphale said. "I'm under stress. Oh, how revolting. Are you alright?"  


"M'fine." Crowley tried to breathe through his mouth, but then he could taste it. "It's terrible, I'm impressed. Still really funny, though."

"No, it is not, ever." Aziraphale said, resignedly, wearily, with deep affection. "You infant."

Somewhere in the dimness, the shop bell tinkled politely, hoping to be put back to work sometime this century. Aziraphale sighed happily and pondered different shades of tartan fabric swatches, and how many books he might miraculously fit in the Bentley for their trip. Crowley thought about real estate listings and had a dim, strange urge to acquire a frilly apron. They still hadn't let go. Finally Crowley mumbled, "Hey, Angel? Those words. You know I, uh, do. You, too. More than anything. Tell me again, Angel, out loud."  


So he did.

* * *

(1) With literal chains, which was the best case scenario. Worst case scenario was an eternity of actually being the desk, complete with a dead ficus plant, a daily planner (Monday: Torment. Next Monday: Staff meeting about torment,) and an annoying Newton's Cradle going clack clack clack forever. Don't even ask where Dagon kept the extra pens. 

(2) As a rule, Imps don't have names, they are the dust bunnies of Hell. If they survive Hell long enough they might graduate to 'Hey, you!' or in this particular Imp's case, 'Geoffrey'. But they usually are trampled long before that, or eaten, or destroyed utterly during intense, violent multi-player games of Badminton, where they are the shuttlecock. An unusually unfortunate Imp will hang around long enough to be promoted to stirring lava pools for various demons while they go on their smoke break, (they never return,) or delivering messages, (in a place where they often Kill the Messenger whether it comes bearing bad news or not,) or are commanded to spy on a powerful demon with burning yellow eyes and sharp teeth, an apparent immunity to holy water and Satan knew what else, and a ferocious dislike of being spied upon. 

(3) He actually had a decent voice, as humans reckoned, as an angel, not so much. But what he lacked in angelic vocal talent he made up for with great volume and enthusiasm, which is why when the foundations of the Earth were laid and the morning stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy, Aziraphale was kept very busy licking envelopes, lest he hit a clinker on Gloria in Excelsius Deo.

(4) Neither the staircase or the little bedroom should actually exist, considering the architecture of the building, but the Angel had needed it to be there once, and it still was. There wasn't anything up there, really, just more stacks of books that didn't quite deserve a place on the shelves downstairs but Aziraphale couldn't bear to sell. Also a narrow antique bed (also piled with books,) that Aziraphale had briefly retired to after a particularly harsh dressing-down from his Angelic Bosses regarding frivolous miracles, back when Crowley was playing the dashing flying ace back and forth over Belgium in some rickety death-trap biplane and his infrequent letters had stopped coming altogether, and there was no one to turn to and everything was terrible. Aziraphale had just really needed the small, mortal release of pulling a blanket over one's head and screaming into a pillow.

(5) This was right at the top of the list next to the most recent addendum "No requests to 'Pull my finger' ". It was just not done. Though Crowley did the 'Pull my finger' gag as much as he could get away with. He had started catching Aziraphale with it sometime in the nineteen-fifties, and did it so often that he wore it out and Aziraphale saw the prank coming a mile off. So sometimes in the following decades he merely waited for the angel to become distracted, wordlessly and casually held out a finger or two for Aziraphale to grasp under the pretense of handing him something, and then let it rip. It was just as gut-bustingly hilarious to him every time, much to Aziraphale's annoyance and disgust. It had got Crowley thrown out of the shop a time or two or three, until the angel realized just how well a little demonic flatulence cleared a crowded bookshop on a busy day, and quite a lot of the pavement outside, too, if it was warm out and windows were open. Thereafter, Aziraphale made the best of it and stashed strongly scented handkerchiefs here and there around the shop for when Crowley seemed in a playful mood. He swore someday he would stir his own corporation's internal workings and give the demon tit for tat, if he could figure out how to do it without permanent and tragic consequences. He had once knocked Crowley out for three days when he put a bit too much oomph on a thoughtless 'bless you' during a sneezing fit, he feared a holy fart might actually kill him.

(6) Oddly enough, Aziraphale was in Crowley's dream. He was walking behind an old fashioned lawnmower, in his shirt sleeves and a straw hat, bow tie loosened, trouser cuffs rolled up and dusted with grass clippings, the very picture of a happily domesticated Englishman circa, say, 1948. There was a cottage and a garden and a glass of lemonade involved, and Crowley may or may not have been wearing a tasteful string of pearls (black, of course,) and a frilly red hostess apron. He was very happy. 

(7) A style Crowley sneeringly called 'Mid-Century Modern Douchnozzle'. Crowley had picked up some unique turns of phrase during a brief assignment to the East Coast of the United States shortly before the birth of the Antichrist, many of which Aziraphale was still trying to decipher. But it certainly sounded amusingly derisive. 

(8) His name was Cliff and he used to wander about near Inhuman Resources in Upper Hell, where Geoffrey was delivering messages and doing his best to avoid becoming lunch or a casualty of impromptu tea-break Badminton tournaments. Every day the Imp would bring him some nice rubbish from the nearby tip, (which was also the canteen,) sometimes throw a telemarketer for him to maul, and they got along like a sulfur pit on fire, until one day all of Hell trembled and great gouts of flame leaped up from the lava pits. Satan stirred from his throne as the horn for the muster of Hell's armies blared. The beast took off baying across the sulfurous plain, and that was the last Geoffrey saw of him. The Hordes filtered back a few Mondays or so later, looking a bit sheepish, but there was no sign of Geoffrey's stray demon. He even went so far as to leave a missing poster on the 'Lost, Strayed, Eaten,' section of I. R.'s break-room corkboard. (MISSING: Large, shaggy demon, last seen running toward the Fifth Circle on Monday the 5,999th, comes to the name of 'Clifford'. Likes ear scratches, playing fetch, and large squeaky sinners. If found, leave notice at this office.)  
If it makes anyone feel better, they can imagine a 'Lassie Come Home' scenario on some future Hellish Monday, where Geoffrey looks up from his work and sees Cliff bounding toward him with a battered old soul in his jaws, ready to play. They are never parted again, and Cliff happily shreds anyone who so much as mentions the word 'shuttlecock' in Geoffrey's presence. Because it probably happened just like that.

(9) This was just Crowley, of course. But if anyone knew the ins and outs and pitfalls of an official document that demanded one's signature and might lead to complete ruin, and whether to sign it or run from it like all the devils of Hell were nipping at your heels-because they very well might be-it was him. 

(10) And after waking up, a nice long stay in a place with high walls where they could wander in their jammies and be given snack-cups of pudding, and the strongest medications for mental illness medicine could prescribe, while babbling about wings and teeth and writing imaginary internet reviews of the finger-paints used during rec period. ("The red has a particularly fine texture with a smooth, fruity finish. 10/10 would eat again.")

(11) Crowley had landed smack at the feet of two dark stocky gentlemen who didn't seem all that surprised to see him, recognizing him as one of their ancestral trickster-gods, although their dog had given him a sniff and ran off howling into the night. The air was heavy with the scent of eucalyptus and the sky overhead was an awe-inspiring tapestry of stars, many of which Crowley had placed himself, though the heavens had shifted over the millennia and he had to search to find his handiwork. However, he did recognize what humans had named The Southern Cross. His left hand tingled sharply, and a glance into the palm showed a short message in Aziraphale's flowing nineteenth-century script. Crowley threw a cursing, stamping tantrum through the coals of the campfire as he realized just how very far his tricky arsehole Angel had removed him, and the heartfelt depth of those words whose sentiment might never be returned. He shouted, "You there! Which way is England?" The gentlemen both pointed in different directions. Crowley growled and extended his wings, took off straight upwards in a shower of sparks, and disappeared.   
"Told you, mate," said the older one, breaking a long, contemplative silence. "Ancestors are weird."

(12) It might have said PLEASE CANCEL MY FRIDAY MANICURE APPOINTMENT AT 'THE NEW YOU' HAIR AND NAIL SALON. ASK FOR TESS, or DEAD OR DISCORPORATED, UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ARE YOU TO SELL ANY OF THE SIGNED WILDE FIRST EDITIONS. But it didn't say either of those things. Someone, somewhere, knows what it said. She is sitting at a small table covered in a bewildering mess of game board, dice, poker chips, playing cards, and what might be some odd-shaped Monopoly tokens, squealing "Finally!"and making little victory fists of glee. It's impossible to tell what game She's playing but She looks very happy about something. The being sitting across from Her, who sometimes plays and sometimes observes, has a broad grin and looks quite happy, too, but then again, his face always looks like that. 


End file.
